


Savages

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Ficlet, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond comes across a very irksome configuration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savages

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The gardens of Imladris are as beautiful at night as they are in the day, though Elrond no longer strolls them as much as he used to. Times have been tiring as of late, with orcs gathering and wargs straying down from the mountains, not strictly at his gates but requiring culling nonetheless. Each time Mithrandir comes to visit, which is more frequent than once was, he bears a new depth to his frown that he still won’t yet divulge.

But occasionally, Elrond still forgoes his bed in favour of his lush grounds. There are few places in Middle Earth still so beautiful, so peaceful, as his home, and it does the heart good to soak that in. 

Tonight, he comes down the twisting steps of a tower for watching the stars, and a hitch of breath to his left gives him pause at the bend. 

He takes a step towards the white railing, gripping it to peer down. Only bushes lie beneath, and his view is obscured through the veil of a tree, but a party of elves has snuck into the groove. Even in the darkness of the hour, Elrond recognizes his sons, perched on a hidden bench amongst the leaves. Squished between them is his Lindir, pressed so close that his dark hair is barely distinguishable from theirs, swept mostly over his back and mixed with Elladan’s. Elrohir is at Lindir’s front, his face turned so that their cheeks touch, his chin hooked half over Lindir’s shoulder and Elladan latched over the other. Lindir makes another gasping noise—the breathlessness that drew Elrond’s attention. It takes him a moment to assess the positions of all their hands—Lindir’s almost loose at his sides, Elladan’s secured around Lindir’s trim waist, Elrohir’s on Lindir’s hips. The twins are dressed in their typical silken, silver robes, but Lindir...

Lindir wears _nothing_. His pale skin is exposed beneath the starlight, glistening with the beginnings of sweat. His lashes are lowered, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. He seems to have trouble breathing, and he’s trembling, and for a moment, Elrond is seized with the urge to leap over the balcony, gather his poor attendant in his arms, and administer whatever help he can. 

But a few more mesmerizing seconds reveal that Lindir isn’t exactly _hurt_ ; he’s simply filled beyond his capacity. The three of them are moving, Elladan and Elrohir rocking into him, tossing him up with each shift, and their own faces are painted with pleasure, just with more control. If only one of them is inside him, Elrond can’t guess which, but he knows his sons well enough to understand that they like to share what they can. And Lindir has never been good at refusing his lords anything. When Elrond looks at his sons, he wants to jerk away and rush back to his chambers, forgetting he ever saw this. But then his gaze will fall on Lindir’s pretty features, warped in the throes of sensuality, and Elrond can’t seem to move. 

Sweeping stray strands of straight hair behind Lindir’s ear, Elladan murmurs into it, “Do you still wish it was our father taking you?”

Elrond’s eyes widen, his knuckles tightening around the rail. He wouldn’t even be able to hear if he weren’t so close and directly above them; their whispers are hushed and languid. Elrohir chuckles softly, “He does.”

It’s a cruel joke, if it’s that, and it makes Elrond feel sick to be drawn into their games—he’s taught them better than that. But Lindir doesn’t look sick for it. He looks too wrecked to talk, and when he opens his mouth, only a broken gasp fall out. He doesn’t answer, though his eyebrows knit together: there’s _shame_ across his face. He tries to turn away, but Elrohir slips a hand beneath his chin and turns him back, cooing in a saccharine tone, “You should be pleased, at least, to feel us. Our cocks cannot be so different than the one that made us.”

Elladan grins and hisses, “But we are more age-appropriate for you, sweet Lindir.” That, at least, is true, though Elrond’s stomach twists into knots at the thought of this. It’s difficult to watch, but it’s more difficult to try and turn away. Lindir whimpers. Elrond can see very little of him, because the others are so close, blanketing him all around, and he looks truly overwhelmed for it. Neither of them dote any more attention on him than the movement of their hips and their dark words. They don’t kiss him or even stroke him, though his plush lips seem to call to Elrond’s own. It’s true that Lindir is far, far too young for him, and surely, his sons would be a catch to please any elf, especially both at once.

Yet Lindir doesn’t look at them, doesn’t really touch them. His eyes stay closed. He isn’t quite _servicing_ them, for they’re clearly the ones in control, but his mind could easily be elsewhere. Elrohir purrs, “It is rather dirty of you, lusting so much after our old man...”

Lindir winces. Perhaps it’s truth. Elrond can’t believe that and almost doesn’t want to. Then Elladan moves his lips right to Lindir’s ear and whispers, “Are you thinking of him right now?” And Lindir grimaces, gritting his teeth, eyes still closed but scrunching up: he looks almost in _pain_. Both Elladan and Elrohir smile; they have their answer.

Elrond does, too. It only enforces that he has to leave. He has no right to see something so lewd, beautiful but marred; he doesn’t want this memory, either when he sees his sons tomorrow or his young assistant kneeling before him. He means to turn away, but at that moment, Elladan lunges forward, thrusting so hard into poor Lindir that Lindir loses all his breath, his head tossing back and his mouth opening wide, spilling the greatest gasp of all, mingled with a groan, a cry. Elladan muses, “He must be nearing his end.”

“He is,” Elrohir responds, probably having Lindir’s cock pressed into his stomach. “All this talk of his beloved lord Elrond has made him harder.” Elladan smirks like this news is pleasing. 

Lindir rocks forward, arching up, and comes with a cry. The sound ricochets right up through Elrond’s body, leaving him almost dizzy in its wake. He instinctively _knows_ that Lindir’s spilling his release, now trembling violently in their arms. Elladan only thrusts all the harder, Elrohir gasping and following suit. Even after Lindir slumps, spent, the two continue to take him, not gently but _fierce_. And it makes Elrond’s blood run cold. 

He doesn’t know if he should step in or not. He has no business here, but Lindir looks so _broken_ , so devastatingly beautiful and vulnerable, and Elrond’s heart cries to leap over and rescue him, sweep him away and protect him. But he must have chosen to be there, and even now, he makes no move to leave. Elrond knows his sons would never force Lindir and never _truly_ hurt him, but their behaviour still irks Elrond, the way they use his satiated body and spew such vile words. 

Yet what worries Elrond the most is his own _jealousy_ —he sees them and can’t help but wish that their words were true, and that he were the one with a tired Lindir lying along his body, not in some dark corner of the gardens but in the open, plush sheets of his chambers. He’s never let himself think of such things with his faithful attendant before, but now he can’t stop himself. He knows what Lindir looks like in the throes of pleasure, and he _wants it for his own._

He’ll leave. One more second, and he’ll go. But in that last second, Lindir’s head lolls back onto Elladan’s shoulder, and his eyes slide hazily open. 

Staring straight up, they catch with Elrond’s and widen. Elrond’s sure his own gaze is no less shocked, even for all his years and wisdom.

At least it’s broken the spell. He turns away before his sons can spot him, hurriedly sweeping back up the stairs—he’ll go down the other side of the tower.

And he can only hope that his loyal attendant will follow.


End file.
